shake the bones

I’m delighted by the brave women and men
who fall asleep in public library chairs.
Sometimes bold to go for the window seats,
the ones commanding view of the civic square, full shine
of lunchtime yogis and sushi advocates.
I take my lunchtime time to doze, thank you,
they seem to say
in endless gape of mouth, a stream of
hahhhhhhhh
hands nestled snug in armpits
the way top hatted Brits of lore
used to punch around in nippy London winters.

Helene and Andrew, who I worked for as a chef at Il Forno, offered their daughter’s spare mattress for my sleeping purposes for the time between the end of my au pair contract, on the 21st of December, and when my parents would rock into the Auckland airport on January 3rd.

Thus I spent my Christmas in a kiwi fashion, with barbecued pizzas, snowflake decorations, and 23 degree sunny skies. The company was lively and wore shorts and I couldn’t have asked for a better game of Monopoly, whereupon I dominated and had at least five hotels on green and yellow properties.

As well as a hotel on Park Avenue.

And a couple scattered here and there who’s counting really. All I remember was the gratification of hearing cries of relief when the thimble landed on “go to jail.”

Many dreams
and not all find the surface.
Stay real—
stay here, get lower,
go deeper, let it sink, let the mind anchor
let the breath work and the heart beat
and the music swell and the words which form
beneath your fingers swell as well and the words and jazz
and night breeze and occasional mosquito, there’s life force in there, too—

Let’s just sit here for a minute,
here, on this log, next to
the creek which flows strong and clear.

I have to show you this tree;
a tree from the sun, from the soul
on its own, a tree
on whose long furry branch
dangles wise chin hairs and me—
swinging in my hammock
safe and soundless
the wind tilted my chin for a kiss
every now and then.

The front page headlines written
by an aware individual
who keeps delight on the simmer
at having found the story of the missing child-rape case
first.
The television stations,
projecting visions of chaos
injecting emotion to hype it all up
get you going, get the fires lit, get the smoke signals outhoney, we’re not going anywhere for the next yearat leastI swear,the world keeps getting worse and worsewe’ll just stay here and pay our income taxes and chalk our homes with toys and canned foodand we’ll call it all good.

Naked toes nestle into
the folds of my hammock, which
swings, easy, like the gentle
head nod that accompanies
soulful conversation—the
air massages the oak leaves
above, and the four of us
are in holy existence;
synchronized we inhale
and loosen.

Crafting a home from the bones up—
here, where homes feel flint to lay,
here, where wildflowers venture wild,
here, to the steady whine of the bus approaching
the red light, which dangles
in front of the library.